As I walked out to my Corolla I couldn’t help wondering: If Doris had lied so convincingly about being divorced, who’s to say she wasn’t lying about the murder?

Maybe she didn’t change her mind about killing Marybeth.

Maybe all she changed was her murder weapon.

Now I had two suspects with motives, but not a shred of proof that either one of them doctored the guacamole. The only fingerprints on that damn bottle of peanut oil were Rochelle’s.

Feeling frustrated by my lack of evidence, I decided to drive out to the beach to clear my head. It was an overcast day, cool and gray, the perfect day for walking and thinking, with no TV to distract me.

I drove out to Malibu and parked on the Coast Highway, then scrambled down a steep pebbled path onto the beach.

Hardly anyone was there. Just a few dog walkers and hardy joggers, tossing up clumps of wet sand as they ran. I took off my shoes and walked along the shoreline, sand squishing between my toes. The cool, damp air felt great on my face. True, my hair was frizzing like a Brillo pad, but I didn’t care. It was worth it.

I walked along the shoreline, turning things over in my mind. And after forty-five minutes of deep thought, I reached an important insight:

Dog poop doesn’t smell nearly as bad at the beach as it does in town.

What can I say? My mind wandered.

Annoyed at myself for having frittered away forty-five minutes, I headed back to the Corolla.

I started the car and was about to merge into traffic on the Coast Highway when suddenly I heard an earsplitting explosion. Now I’ve seen my fair share of action flicks, so I know a gunshot when I hear one. Someone was shooting at me!

With Herculean effort, I managed to keep my cool and steered the Corolla into the ongoing stream of cars on the highway.

Yeah, right. You know me better than that. I immediately flew into an advanced state of panic and barely missed ramming my Corolla into a Mercedes SUV. The charming trophy wife behind the wheel flashed me an impressive set of diamonds as she gave me the finger.

I gunned the accelerator, once again trying to merge into traffic, when another shot rang in the air. Why the hell wasn’t anyone stopping to help me? I could only pray that one of those cowards whizzing by on the highway would call the police.

Suddenly the Corolla started bumping erratically. Damn. The shooter had blown out my tires. I wasn’t going anywhere. I was stranded, alone on the shoulder of the road with a would-be assassin.